I am happy to announce that I was published in Ons Klynti; an independent South African cultural magazine. To have my poem Schizophrenic times printed in this issue is fabulous. The magazine is published and launched annually at the Oppikoppi music festival in South Africa.
Thank you so much for appreciating my work like this and thank you for your continued support here on WordPress. Read more about this contemporary online magazine @ Ons Klyntji
I hear the church bells ringing
And the birds take flight into the cold spring skies
And of all the things that I wish to do
I want to know what it is like to soar with you
Through the mundane things of this world
Because masturbation is not love
Pornography is not love
Equality is not love
Love is free from our imagination
As free as the rain that falls from the heavens
Mountains valleys oceans alleys
She can not be rented nor invented nor paused
So forget about yesterday and tell me about now
What brings you pure joy
I used to dread the dreadlock until I let my locks, my hair grow out on its own. So that I can let you know that I too am love. Be gentle with yourself. There is courage and freedom and inner peace to be gained from this.
Forests of dark coily hair jerseyed
Into the fabric of my immigrant life
Understanding what is my ground
Something that’s not yours to name.
“Be careful of your thoughts, for your thoughts become your words. Be careful of your words, for your words become your actions. Be careful of your actions, for your actions become your habits. Be careful of your habits, for your habits become your character. Be careful of your character, for your character becomes your destiny.” Ancient Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu.
I am inspired and eternally grateful for each and every one of your posts that plant seeds of endless possibilities for my life: your precious reminders to keep receiving, creating and giving. I am considering to translate a selection of my poems into Norwegian for them to be published in a book at a publishing house here where I live; connect with the people who I live with. I am also aware of the fact that my readership is mainly english speaking and Norwegians do speak and read english.
Perhaps to focus on self publishing an english poetry book is the way to go. What am I waiting for?
The bullshit of the week begins effortlessly
The printed word declares fear on the world
And at some point we feel the accountability
Close our eyes so we can play hunger games
While the obese stuff their muffle in protest
Dear God give me the strength to know you
Above agendas tripping all over themselves
Beyond all the seductions of his entitlements
Into the season of Your mercy and Your song
Because love is all that I seem to recognise
And Frida’s red ribbons
For each man who is looking for art
When respect was never found in looks
For each woman who is looking for security
And love was never found inside books
Romance for what it is worth has left us divorced
Where everything better is waiting in another place
When we have yet to learn to stay
Where pure joy is.
A crisp breeze of new love on its way enters the kitchen windows
Rustling handwritten notes along the wooden breakfast table
Winter turns to quietly summon all her workers once more
Without any reason.
The oceans swell
As tears become saltier with loss
And bodies crash behind wintry doors
Groping for any familiar textures of humanity
That these foreign lands begin to recall
For mothers and fathers who abandon understanding
Just to smell the soil of a better life.
Multicoloured leaves along the street in a hill
Wood soaked and sweetened by the rain falling
Merciful water dripping onto quiet pavements
Dribbling slippery down the tarred thirsty road
A neutral sky where the air harbours no pressure
The rooftops and local windows leaking domestic
An uninspired dog lays heavy by an entrance hall
When there is nothing to do is there nothing to do
Flattened tired carpets still pretend to be luxury
Inside wooden walls of the same old thing again
Sometimes the coffee steaming will hold comfort
One of those days without a name to label it by
Forgotten picture frames capture some yesterdays
Glossy managed smiles and gestures from parties
The trolls and magnets and broken love messages
Settled into grown up life and ways of escaping it
The stale kitchen mood meets a crisp autumn air
Spring long dead visits the city to play some tricks
Sunlight so mild giving agonizingly little warmth
To feed the endless day ahead and years of ordinary.
When beauty no longer misleads us
When our bodies no longer separate us
When our achievements are forgotten
When all our mistakes have softened
When talking is no longer a commodity
When love abandons physical currency